


Our Hearts Are Fix'd

by eleanor_lavish



Category: British Actor RPF, British Royalty RPF
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Banter, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Sentient Beards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Your Royal Highness,” she says. “How lovely to meet you.” Before Harry can return the sentiment, she continues with a wide-eyed gaze at Ms. Knightley. “Wait, fuck, was I supposed to wait for some official introduction? I’ve bollocksed the whole thing up, haven’t I?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Hearts Are Fix'd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [take_liberties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/take_liberties/gifts).



**2008**

The first time they meet Harry actually has no idea who she is. He’s just back from Afghanistan and she was invited to this charity dinner as part of the cast of some costume drama that you couldn’t pay him to watch, and somehow her table is next to his. She’s in a blue dress that’s certainly conservative enough for Granny to approve, but it does nothing to hide some truly spectacular curves. But it’s not the curves that make Harry’s eyes keep darting to her throughout the evening - it’s the way she speaks with her hands, the way she laughs with her whole body, her head thrown back, her mouth open wide. She’s altogether too open, too demonstrative, and Harry wonders if she’s even English.

Dominic Cooper is at her table, and Harry’s met him a few times at these things. He catches Cooper by the drinks table, and after a friendly handshake and a quick how-do-you-do, Harry casually turns the subject to his table of co-stars. “Looks like a good group,” he says, gesturing to the table, but pointedly _not_ to the stunning brunette in the blue dress. 

“Definitely,” Cooper replies. “It’s nice to make a few films where I don’t want to throttle anyone on set.”

Harry give a well-practiced hum of understanding. “Who’s that girl, there?” he gestures, “The one talking to Ms. Knightley? Don’t think I’ve seen her at one of these before.”

Cooper starts laughing and Harry gets the feeling that he may not have been as nonchalant as he’d tried for. “Oh, dear,” he says, shaking his head, and Harry is well and truly confused. “That’s Hayley Atwell, Sir, and I don’t think - well.” The woman - Ms. Atwell, _Hayley_ \- is clutching Keira’s shoulder and shaking it vigorously as she talks. 

“Is she… English?” Harry asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Her mother’s a bit of a nutter from here in London, but her father’s apparently an American. She’s an original, our Hayley.” Cooper grins at him, a little slyly. “Would you like to meet her, Your Highness?”

“Only if you don’t think it would be an intrusion,” Harry says, which as Cooper rightly picks up means, _you fucking moron, of course I would like to meet her_.

Harry’s not sure what to expect when Cooper leads him over to the ladies, stopping just at Hayley’s elbow. “Darling,” Cooper says, “I’d like to introduce -”

“Oh, shit,” Hayley says, her eyes going wide when she sees Harry. “Fuck you, you asshole,” she hisses at Cooper before turning to face Harry directly with a bright, fake smile right out of an Austen film. Cooper hides a laugh behind his hand. “Your Royal Highness,” she says. “How lovely to meet you.” Before Harry can return the sentiment, she continues with a wide-eyed gaze at Ms. Knightley. “Wait, fuck, was I supposed to wait for some official introduction? I’ve bollocksed the whole thing up, haven’t I?”

Harry laughs, because he can’t not, even though Granny would be mortified. She’s completely inappropriate and completely _charming_. “No, I mean, generally we get to the names part, but that was certainly memorable.”

“Well, shit,” she says again, but she’s laughing too. “Hayley Atwell, Your Highness,” she says, and just sticks her hand out to shake his, like an American. He doesn’t pause before taking it. 

“Just Harry is fine,” he tells her, and Cooper coughs behind him. When Harry looks, Cooper gives him a wounded look.

“You’ve never let me call you Harry, sir.”

“You’ve never made me laugh like this lovely lady, Cooper.”

“If I knew all it would take was some misplaced profanity to get on the good side of royalty, I’d have told my grandfather’s sheep fucking joke eons ago,” Cooper tells him. 

“Now, now, don’t mock the Kiwis - they’re still part of the Commonwealth,” Harry says, cringing a little as it comes out of his mouth. His brain is still calibrated to military conversation; he’s got to make sure not to stick his foot in it again, or Wills will be insufferable about it. “Sorry,” he says, but Hayley just laughs again, her eyes wide with delight.

“Oh, you’re actually terrible,” she says, gleeful, and Harry isn’t sure but he thinks it might be a compliment. 

The downside of being royalty is that Harry isn’t actually supposed to chat girls up and get their numbers. So after a few minutes of small talk where Ms. Atwell says ‘fuck’ three more times and manages to spill half of her champagne on Harry’s jacket (the cause of two of the ‘fucks’), he’s pulled away by the vice president of the society he’s there to support in Granny’s name, and by the time he gets back around to her table, the whole party has apparently left.

*

**2011**

The second time they meet, Hayley is in Los Angeles for some Marvel talks about a Peggy-related short that may or may not end up materializing, according to her publicist. She wants it to materialize desperately, so she’s happy to fly to America whenever she’s told; _The First Avenger_ certainly made Chris a household name, and she’s happy for him, but she’s still picking up third banana roles in films and hustling on short series runs on the BBC. If Marvel wants more Peggy Carter, Hayley is damn sure going to give it to them.

There’s a Halloween party while she’s there, and she almost begs off - she’s only in town for a week or so, and she’s trying to stay on London time. But the person who invites her is her Marvel stunt double, Kelly, who promises it will be far less industry than she’s fearing. “Most of Jack’s friends are old Navy buddies,” she tells Hayley over the phone. “And I know you’re not allergic to testosterone.”

The party is in a big, ritzy house over an hour south of her hotel in West Hollywood. She glams up a 50’s era green sundress that she’d packed, with bright red lipstick and a rhinestone clip in her hair.

Kelly looks her up and down. “Just tell them you’re Rita Hayworth,” she says, and what the hell - it’s not like Hayley’s going to see these people again.

When Prince Fucking Harry walks into the party, Hayley is four margaritas to the wind. She stands up from her deck chair so fast she’s dizzy. Prince Fucking Harry is in jeans and a blue button-down, just like a normal fucking person, and Hayley is so mortified she slides right into righteous indignation. She has no idea what he’s doing here, but it’s just _not right_ , royalty showing up while Hayley’s on holiday, or sort-of holiday. She’s wearing some Navy boy’s flannel shirt over her sundress, since it’s stained with margarita number three. _It’s probably not him_ , she thinks, even though it’s absolutely him. _He certainly won’t remember me,_ she’s sure, and wonders if this is a good time to try out her American accent. 

Then Prince Fucking Harry spots her from twenty paces and his eyes widen in recognition. Well, shit. 

“Ms. Atwell,” Prince Fucking Harry says as he strides up to her. “What a pleasant surprise.” He’s tall, taller than she remembers, but last time they met she was in punishing four-inch heels. She realizes with a jolt that she’s currently barefoot, in front of royalty.

“You’re here,” she says stupidly. Then, “Sorry, why are you here? Fuck, sorry, Your Highness - I mean. Why the fuck are you here?” She’s going to die now. She’s going to jump into the ocean and die, honestly.

Prince Fucking Harry’s smile just gets wider as she opens her mouth and shoves her entire foot in. “Well, you’re as charming as ever,” he says, chuckling, and she is about to tell him to fuck off, royalty or no, but then he adds, “and I told you, it’s Harry. The boys won’t let me live it down if you ‘Your Highness’ all over me.” She glances over his shoulder at the group of men he walked in with, all tall and broad and tan, with haircuts that scream military. Come to think of it, Prince Fucking Harry’s haircut is looking a little buzzy too. 

“You defected to the US Navy?” she asks, because that seems odd, but Prince Fucking Harry just shrugs.

“Not defected, per se, but they’re letting me train out here for a few months. The Americans have all the cool toys.” He grins like a schoolboy, and Hayley is unexpectedly charmed. “What about you? Didn’t fancy meeting a British actress at a Navy Halloween ‘do.”

“Last minute invite from an old friend,” she says.

“Old friend, hmm,” Prince Fucking Harry looks down at her outfit, his eyes narrowing a little at her borrowed shirt. She rolls her eyes, because boys are all ridiculous, even royal ones. “And that would explain the lack of costume - I figured all actresses would love a good costume opportunity.”

“Only things left at the store were slutty vampire, which is so cliche, and slutty Cookie Monster, which just seemed upsetting, so no. What about you? No costume?”

“Not big on costumes anymore,” he says, and Hayley nods. 

The margaritas kick in again, apparently, because her next words are, “Oh, that’s right. They probably don’t let you wear costumes anymore after that Nazi nonsense, do they?”

Prince Fucking Harry has the decency to look abashed. “You nearly bring down the monarchy once, and you never get to live it down.”

“Nazis are hard to live down.”

“Touche,” he agrees. “Also, seventeen-year-old me was a colossal cock-up.”

“And now?” 

“Now, I’m only a moderate cock-up.” He _winks_ at her, and she just blinks in shock for a moment.

“Oh my god, you’re flirting with me,” she says with drunken surprise, and she would instantly regret it except that _Prince Fucking Harry_ promptly turns a lovely shade of pink.

“I’m… possibly, yes,” he admits, and he’s smiling again, and Hayley can’t help it. She laughs loud enough that three nearby Navy guys turn to stare at them. “You don’t have to be rude about it,” Prince Fucking Harry tells her, but his smile as he says it is sheepish and kind of adorable, and Hayley just starts laughing harder. 

“No, that’s, _no_ ,” she says. “That’s such a terrible idea, Sir, you can’t imagine.”

“Why is that?” he asks, crossing his arms ( _such nice arms_ , she thinks).

“Because I am _not_ a lady,” she tells him, in all honesty. “I’m a half-Yank, semi-crazy person.”

“You’re a charming, lovely, half-Yank, semi-crazy person,” he agrees, and he takes a step toward her. 

She manages to sidestep him, because Prince Fucking Harry really _cannot_ hit on her, but then she drunkenly loses her footing, stumbles and grabs onto his arm ( _definitely very nice_ ), and manages to keep herself upright by applying enough force that she pulls him off balance. Hayley is pretty certain that you can still be locked up in the Tower of London for knocking a member of the royal family on their arse; as luck would have it, the swimming pool is there to catch Prince Fucking Harry’s fall.

“Oh dear,” she manages as he hits the water with a splash. By the time he’s come to the surface, sputtering and probably cursing her family’s name, Hayley is out the front door and begging a ride back to the city with an adorable Navy boy and his equally adorable boyfriend.

Because she comes off rather poorly in it, Hayley manages to not tell anyone the story of the time Prince Fucking Harry flirted with her until she meets James, who has a knack for getting secrets out of people. When she tells him, over a bottle of scotch in a posh hotel suite at San Diego Comic-Con, he only laughs at her a little, and then proceeds to call her ‘Princess’ for the next fourteen months, because he’s an insufferable wanker.

*

**2015**

Harry’s Beard is having a pretty fantastic year. It manages to have at least twelve articles written about it (three in _Vanity Fair_ , which seems apt), and gets Harry invited to three parties he’d previously been banned from for being a knob. Harry’s Beard is allowed to call Harry a knob, because it’s true, and because who is going to stop it? 

No one - Harry’s Beard is _unstoppable_.

It’s the week before Christmas, and Harry’s Beard is enjoying a lovely party to fund Arts Education. Harry has finally learned to stop drinking anti-Beard beverages like Guinness and eggnog, to his Beard’s eternal relief, so they’re enjoying a nice glass of scotch, neat, when a gorgeous brunette in a white dress cut to show off _all_ her assets walks in. Harry inhales just the wrong way and has to cover his face as he tries not to cough. Harry’s Beard sighs at the intrusion, but it forgives him when Harry finally takes his hands away and his Beard can see that above the lovely cleavage is the equally lovely face of Hayley Atwell.

Harry’s Beard wasn’t around the last time they met Miss Atwell, but he gathers it ended with Harry in a swimming pool. _Oh dear,_ Harry’s Beard chuckles to itself. _Well, this should be good._

Harry makes his way across the room as stealthily as he possibly can, being royalty possessed of a fantastic ginger beard, and manages to almost make it to Miss Atwell’s elbow before she notices he’s there. “You’re fucking kidding me,” she sighs when she sees him, and Harry’s Beard really wishes it could see Harry’s _face_. “Sorry, Your Highness -”

“Harry,” Harry cuts in, and good for him!

“No, see,” she continues, “calling you ‘Harry’ means we’re friends, and the last time I saw you, I dumped you in a swimming pool and ran away.”

“I do remember that,” Harry tells her.

“Obviously, which is why I’ve been steadfastly avoiding this moment for four bloody years.” And while she’s definitely pink in the cheeks, she certainly doesn’t bow or scrape or giggle or any of that nonsense that other girls do when they’re embarrassed around Harry. In fact, the pink in her cheeks is rather becoming. Harry’s left a little speechless at her forthrightness, and in the intervening pause, Miss Atwell’s gaze takes in his whole face. “Nice beard, by the way.”

Harry’s Beard practically preens.

Harry smiles wider than his Beard has felt him smile in a long time. “Thank you, I rather like it myself.”

“You should,” she says. “It’s jumped you from ruddy schoolboy straight to ruggedly handsome.”

“Ruggedly handsome? Are you flirting with me, Hayley?” Harry asks, teasing.

Miss Atwell rolls her head back on her shoulders and looks at the ceiling with a sigh. It gives Harry’s Beard a fantastic view of her assets, but Harry, in a very un-Harry-like move, jerks his eyes away and back to her face. “You know,” she says, “This is the first time I’ve managed a conversation with you while completely sober. I really thought it would go a little better than this.”

“I always enjoy our conversations,” Harry says, and Miss Atwell shakes her head.

“Well, I’m sure they’re a break from the usual respectful ladies and completely normal conversations you’re used to, so you’re welcome, I suppose,” she says, and her laugh is simply infectious. Harry’s Beard finally understands why Harry’s been obsessively watching her television show all year. 

“I’m not a wilting royal wallflower, Miss Atwell,” he tells her. “Nor do I give a flying fuck if you’re a lady. Which I would have told you back in California if you’d waited until I’d dried off before disappearing.”

“Oh,” Miss Atwell says, clearly thrown for a loop. 

_Don’t cock it up now, Harry!_ , Harry’s Beard thinks as Harry smoothly grabs two glasses of wine from a passing server and hands one to Miss Atwell. “I would very much like to see you again, on purpose, possibly over a meal, so we can have more fucking delightful conversations.”

“A date,” she says flatly, and Harry’s Beard winces, but Harry (well done, lad) just looks her right in the eyes and nods.

“Yes, a date.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Harry’s Beard is glad it’s not the one in charge of keeping Harry breathing. “Alright, fine, Harry,” she finally says with a wave of her hand, but her cheeks are even pinker now and her smile is warm. “But only because of the beard.”

 

Harry’s Beard is _unstoppable_.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this isn't exactly what you'd asked for, and it also got REAL WEIRD at the end there, but I had a blast writing this pairing and I hope you like it!! Many thanks to my Yuletide support group who wouldn't let me give up, and allowed me to write fic from the POV of a sexy, ginger beard.


End file.
